


In the Marrow of my Bones

by sequence_fairy



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: The devil doesn’t have nightmares, or at least, he never used to.





	In the Marrow of my Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Time to break in a new OTP. This is post S2E5.

The weight of it against his palm, the ring of it as he turns it in his grip, the give of angelic flesh around the keen edge of it’s blade– **  
**

The blood; bright red and viscous in that ichor-like way of the angels, all over his hands–

“You never were afraid to get your hands dirty, were you, brother?” Uriel’s voice is a ghost.

Lucifer gasps awake. 

His bedroom is shadowed, the curtains rippling in the night breeze from the open sliding door. His heart pounds in his chest, and sweat beads on his brow. Vestigial panic rides the sparking static of his nerves. He runs a hand through his hair, willfully ignoring the way he can feel it trembling against his scalp.

The Devil, as a general rule, does not have nightmares. Technically, he probably shouldn’t even be able to dream, however, it seems his traitorous brain has decided that he should be perpetually assaulted by the memory of stabbing Uriel with Azrael’s blade every time he tries to sleep, no matter how much he attempts to dull the vivid recollection with all manner of substances. And he has tried  _everything_.

Abandoning further attempts at sleeping, Lucifer gets out bed. His skin prickles where the sweat has begun to dry. He tugs his robe around himself, though trying to ward off this chill is not something an earthly garment can manage.

Barefoot, he pads to the bar to pour himself something that will burn - never mind that he’ll never burn the afterimage of Uriel’s face gone slack with death out of his mind, never mind that it’ll never obliterate the thrill of power that rode in his gut for the scant second before he realised that the sword in his hand, the one he’d picked up without thinking, was the thing that had killed Uriel.

Lucifer swallows the slug of whiskey, and then knocks back another one straight from the bottle. The warmth of the alcohol fizzes in his belly, and suddenly all he wants to do is see everything in flames. He wonders if watching everything burn would finally shake off the cold that seems to have settled into his blood.

He throws the bottle, listening with grim satisfaction as it smashes against the far wall, and then he attacks the rest of the bar.

When he comes back to his senses, it is to find himself sitting in a pile of broken glass. He puts his hands down flat, and hisses in pain. Blood wells scarlet across his palms, and he looks up, unsurprised to find Chloe there.

“Detective,” he says, voice gravelly. Chloe doesn’t say anything, just watches him warily, the way you watch a rabid animal that’s been cornered. He must look a mess. “Sorry about the–” he trails off, gesturing helplessly. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just be half a moment.” Lucifer gets to his feet, feeling oddly unsteady and sort of hollow inside.

Chloe doesn’t spring to his aid, but her gaze sharpens as he moves past her, not even attempting his usual swagger.

“Trixie made a new friend today,” Chloe says, a propos of nothing, and Lucifer stops moving to turn and look at her. “They bonded over American Girl dolls and their mutual love of chocolate cake.” The detective brushes a hand through her hair. “And then, at the office this afternoon, two of our patrol cops got engaged! It was lovely, someone brought in donuts. They were from that little place down near here - the one that makes all the fun flavours. You know the one I mean, right?” Chloe looks up at him for confirmation and Lucifer manages to make an effort at a look of acknowledgement.

Chloe continues babbling at him about everything and nothing, effortlessly holding the entire conversation by herself, while he stands there, mute. It hits him, as she’s telling him about Ella’s ridiculous taste in music, that she’s here, she’s here, she’s  _here_.

Uriel can’t have her now. The key wasn’t struck, the pattern not set in motion, and Lucifer takes a shuddering breath in. Chloe stops talking.

“Lucifer?” she asks, and he blinks at her. He blinks again, and she resolves into brilliance in the darkness of his penthouse, lit by the backlight from the wreckage of the bar, and the ambient glow of the city outside. She’s sitting on the piano bench, back to the keys, and he takes a step towards her, and steps on broken glass.

The pain brings him fully back to awareness, and he hop-limps to the couch, sinking down and lifting his foot onto his knee. Chloe joins him with a pair of tweezers and the first aid kit she’s pulled out of her purse. She goes back to talking about nonsense while she picks the glass out of his foot, and her voice washes over him, the soothing rhythm of it lulling the vicious guilt that twists in his gut.

“All done,” she says, as she wraps his foot in gauze. “Good as new.”

He’s never been good or new, but Chloe doesn’t need to know that, so he smiles, and hopes it’s as good as his usual one. He’s not sure she buys it, because she drops her hand to rest on his forearm and her touch is like a firebrand. “I’ll be here, if you decide you want to talk about it.” She gets up then, and Lucifer surprises himself by reaching for her hand.

Chloe seems just as surprised as he does, but she lets him change his grip so he can lace their fingers together and her hand is warm and she smiles, so softly that he thinks he might feel something shift in his chest, were there anything there to shift.

“Goodnight Lucifer,” Chloe says, and he lets go of her hand.

Only after she’s stepped onto the elevator and the doors have closed, does he speak; ”goodnight, Chloe,” he says, to his empty apartment, and tips his head back against the couch cushion.


End file.
